Murder in the Magic City

by G. P. Sorrells

  Sheridan saw nothing at first. He continued to stare, hoping to breakdown the wall between them. To see what it was about Hurst that they expected him to have any sort of faith in. But nothing put his mind at ease. “What do you want with me?”

  “I had hoped we could be a bit more cordial toward one another, but we can certainly be curt, if that’s more your speed.”

  “Hard to be civil when you strap me to this fucking table for god knows how long.” Sheridan wanted to throw a punch. To stand up and give Hurst a piece of his mind. But he felt weak. Unable to do anything but lay down, strapped to a glorified board, it was hard to feel anything else. In the end, he opted to let the scowl on his face do the talking.

  “I apologize for the less than stellar accommodations. We must be judicious regarding how we budget the money allotted to us. I will pass along your concerns when we discuss next year’s budget with the powers that be. Perhaps we can spring for better cushions. If not on the gurney, at least something a touch softer on the restraints.”

  “No need to patronize me. It’s not like I’m going anywhere. I’m your prisoner.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Hurst said. He stood up abruptly and paced the room like a university professor amid a truly enlightening discussion on Earth’s place within the vast, empty expanse of the cosmos. “You’re not my prisoner. You can leave whenever you wish.”

  Sheridan tugged on the unclasped restraints lying next to him. “Hard to believe that considering the reality.”

  “Those are there for your protection.” Sheridan laughed. “I’m serious. If we were to allow you the chance to sit in Ammon’s Horn unrestrained, my god, the results would likely be catastrophic.”

  “Ammon’s what now?”

  “Ammon’s Horn,” Hurst said. “The room you’ve spent much of your time in these past few weeks.” Sheridan’s scowl disappeared as his jaw lost its ability to remain shut. “Never mind the name. Just think of it as a place where your memories can be… how should I put this? Adjusted.”

  “Why the hell would I need them adjusted?”

  “I’m glad you asked.” Hurst opened the file and spun it around to face Sheridan. Inside was a sheet with information about the man he had killed. The same man whose memories he had been experiencing firsthand. At least what they led him to believe were the man’s memories. “Do you remember when we first discussed your mission? I told you that for it to have any chance at success, you would need to become this man.”

  “Yea, kind of hard to forget,” Sheridan said. He scanned the paper, scrutinizing the information as best he could while keeping a measured eye on Hurst. “What the hell did Micah Brantley do to deserve this? Or his family?”

  Hurst smiled. “As I told you before, that isn’t relevant to the task at hand.”

  “It is to me.”

  “Well, I’m touched to see your golden heart remains intact, but you can’t change their past. You can only ensure their sacrifices weren’t in vain.”

  “They had little choice in the matter.”

  “No, they did not. But you do.” Hurst sat back down. “You’re at a crossroads. You can walk away from this all, let their deaths be for nothing, or you can honor their loss and do something meaningful with whatever time you’ve got left.”

  “I’m not convinced I have much of a choice.”

  “There’s always a choice,” Hurst said. “The result may differ a tad from expectations, but that doesn’t detract from the existence of choice.”

  Sheridan wanted nothing more in that moment than to give Hurst a piece of his mind. To walk out with his head held high. Trouble was, he was all but certain a bullet would be in his back before he left the room. The truth wasn’t far off. He sighed. “Just tell me what comes next.”

  “Let’s look into the future first,” Hurst said. He flipped through the papers inside of the file and stopped at a page midway through. There was a picture of Victor Perez in the top right corner. “Eventually, when we give you the green light to begin the crucial phase of your mission, this is the man you’ll need to rendezvous with.”

  “Victor Perez,” Sheridan muttered. The name seemed strangely familiar, as though the two men had a shared history whose specifics eluded him in that moment. Trouble was that Sheridan had never laid eyes on him before that moment.

  “Yes. He and Mr. Brantley were close friends.” Hurst flipped to the next page. Pictures of what appeared to be Perez’s home, or office, were inset next to text specific to the location. “Perez has worked closely with many of the various factions within the seedy underbelly of South Florida. You will need to earn his trust and prove that it’s worth the risk for him to make introductions with the Medina Criminal Enterprise.”

  “Earn his trust? I thought you said Perez and Brantley were close friends.”

  “I did. The operative word there is ‘were,’ as in no longer the case but was so at one point in time.” He took his hand off the file and crossed his arms. Sheridan wasn’t letting much get past him, but there was still time to break his will. To force him down the desired path, whose end saw the death of an empire. “They went to college together at Florida Atlantic University. Went their separate ways after graduation with Perez choosing to use his newfound business acumen for rather nefarious gains. According to our intel, these men haven’t spoken in nearly twenty years.”

  “That’s a damn long time, but I think I understand why you chose Brantley.”

  “You think so?”

  “Sure. There’s a pre-existing relationship, one that dissipated rather than flat out ending on a sour note. From my limited knowledge,” Sheridan reasoned, “it would seem likely that Perez at least welcomes the chance to have a sit-down with me. If he thinks I’m Brantley. Hard to imagine that because we look nothing alike.”

  “I’m glad you brought that up,” Hurst said, a sly grin on his face. “The next phase in this metamorphosis will be for you to become Micah Brantley, not just on a mental level, but on the physical plane as well.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I didn’t have you kill him to test you. To prove that you would listen. No, that’s Hollywood bullshit.” Hurst stood up, a maniacal tone in his voice. “You ended his life to replace with your own. The next step is to end what the world knows as Ross Sheridan and continue on as Micah Brantley.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, but I am. The moment you walk out of this door, Ross Sheridan will cease to exist. Any record of him in the civilized world will show that a lone gunman murdered him in his home. A robbery gone bad. From there, facial reconstructive surgery will be the next stop. Followed in short order by a myriad of other procedures. And a bit more time in Ammon’s Horn, for good measure.”

  “Motherfucker.”

  “There’s the door, Ross,” Hurst said. He gestured toward the slab of metal with his free hand, while the other drifted back ever so casually toward his service weapon. It would be a shame to have wasted all the resources up to that point, only to have it end with a corpse on the floor in front of him. But they had planned for such a contingency. They would regroup and find a replacement. There was always a sucker willing to travel down unsavory roads in search of redemption. It mattered not that their hope of salvation was fleeting. All OrCA needed was a subject willing to sell their soul to the highest bidder for the banal idea of true freedom.

  Sheridan sat still, his eyes darting from the door to Hurst. Resistance felt futile. A proverbial middle finger which would almost certainly end with a bullet to his back and his body being dumped on the side of the road somewhere. His heart pounded with a dangerous mixture of adrenaline and fear. He wasn’t ready to die, but the idea of being made into an errand boy for a tyrant wasn’t much of an upgrade. An uncomfortable moment of silence ensued as he averted his gaze to the table. He grabbed each end briefly, before relenting and slamming back into the chair.

  “Fuck it,�
� he said, exasperated. “I’ve either got to do this or I die. And I’d prefer to go out on my own terms.”

  “I’m glad you came to your senses, Ross,” Hurst said. Content that Sheridan wouldn’t be making any sudden moves, he released his grip on his service weapon. “Our next step is to make some, uh, alterations. We will do most of the work to your face, though the idea is to make you indistinguishable from Brantley.”

  “Just get it over with.” Sheridan stood up and stretched. He smirked as Hurst hopped up and attempted to make a subtle move for his weapon. “Don’t worry, I’m playing along. The sooner you do what you need to do, the sooner I can get out of this godforsaken tin can.”

  Chapter 45

  “There may be other agents around. Moving in the shadows, adjusting the strings to ensure the show goes on as planned. They won’t announce themselves, and you likely won’t be able to deduce their allegiance, but their involvement is ultimately of no concern. It will not impact your ability to carry out your role.”

  “Say I figure it out. Maybe something is said, or done, that just rubs me the wrong way and I put two and two together. What then?”

  “Nothing. You focus on the job. Forget what you think you may or may not have seen, hypothetically speaking, and keep your mind focused on taking care of Carlos Medina. If you take a few of his lieutenants out along the way, perfect. But Medina’s death is of the utmost importance. Nothing else matters.”

  Micah slowly opened his eyes. Sunlight filtered in through his window, but he had been far too ensconced by the strange dream he’d had to be bothered by the intrusion. The sequence of his most recent dream was but a small portion of a stream that had gradually played out in greater detail over the past year. He found himself increasingly impressed by the level of detail his imagination could produce while his mind ran on autopilot; but also disturbed at how real everything felt.

  Was it just a dream?

  The bed was lonely, and Micah groped the nightstand nearby for his cellphone. He brought it to his eyes and saw the time: 10:47am. Underneath the digital clock was an oblong bubble, surrounding a text message sent to him from Valerie.

  It read: “Hope you slept well, sweetheart! I’m only working a half day. See you this afternoon!”

  Before he could get to the end of the message, the words ‘unknown caller’ took over the digital real estate, superimposed over a blank screen. He pressed the green button and brought the phone to his ear.

  “What’s up?”

  “This is housekeeping. You alone?”

  “As long as you’ve got some good mints for my pillow.”

  “Only the best.”

  The line clicked. Micah got out of bed and walked over to the bathroom. A few minutes later, he heard a knock on the door. He opened it and saw Castillo standing in the hallway with a couple duffel bags.

  “Hey, Jimmy. Come on in,” he said, motioning inside.

  “Thanks, compadre.” Castillo walked over to living room and stopped. He took a moment to look around and admire the decorations. “You can tell you’re no longer a bachelor.”

  Micah closed the doors and followed suit. “What makes you say that?”

  “No single man I know would put up that kinda shit,” Castillo chided. He pointed toward an ornate wall decoration; a piece of art composed of a multitude of floral arrangements designed to create a sense of peace in a room. Valerie had insisted the piece served a purpose, but Micah saw little point in its existence. It kept her happy, so he didn’t object too strongly to hanging it up on the wall above his gigantic, flat-screen television.

  “Don’t knock on the Feng Shui,” Micah said, placing a hand on Castillo’s shoulder. “For all you know, that shit was my idea.”

  “Eh, to each his own.” Castillo raised an eyebrow, briefly unsure what to think. Perhaps he had read his understudy incorrectly all this time. No matter. “Where do you want me to put these?”

  “Floor’s fine.”

  Castillo set the duffel bags down and unzipped one. It spread out like dough being set free from the confines of an aluminum container. Inside, it was full to the brim with wrapped stacks of hundred-dollar bills. “This is your cut.”

  “From that side-gig?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Holy shit,” Micah said, thumbing through a few of the neatly stacked wads of cash. He knew there was decent money in the prescription drug trade, and guns always went for a decent asking price, but he hadn’t expected a windfall that nearly eclipsed the monetary pull of some of his more intricate jobs. He also hadn’t ever discussed compensation with Castillo, so his expectations had been purposely measured. “Bit more than I thought you’d be able to pull.”

  Castillo smiled. “Told you to trust me on it. Easy picking as long as you know where to sling it.”

  “Any blowback by Jeremiah’s crew?”

  “Nothing yet. Those hicks are probably too busy figuring out which cattle they’ve got to put down to compensate for the loss.”

  “Can’t imagine that’ll last too much longer.”

  “I doubt it. But we’ll be ready for whatever they throw our way.” Castillo glanced down at his watch, absentmindedly concocting an exit strategy. “You probably don’t have to worry about much since they only expected me specifically. I’ve got some extra security in the meantime. Anywho, time for me to hit the road. Got a meeting with the big boss.”

  “Sounds good,” Micah said, walking over to the door. “Thanks for bringing me in on this.”

  “Anytime,” Castillo said as he left the apartment.

  Micah walked over to the couch, grabbing hold of duffel bags on his way. He removed a fresh stack of hundred-dollar bills and thumbed through the edges of the paper, feeling the brush of each fiber against his skin as a minute burst of air shot forth. He was honed in on the inane act so much that he didn’t even notice the front door opening. Nor the sound it made when it slammed shut.

  “Good day at work?” Valerie blurted, a vein bulging slightly from her forehead. She briefly considered setting her purse down on the counter, but wasn’t certain such a move was necessary.

  Micah felt his stomach drop, as though he were on the verge of cresting a hill on the wildest roller coaster imaginable. There was some truth to the fiction. “I’ve had better.”

  “Feel like telling my why you’re doing business with Jimmy?”

  “He’s just a friend of mine from the office,” Micah said. He felt terrible lying to Valerie, but he couldn’t tell her the truth. “He told me about this investment plan he came across, so I gave him some money to work with. Just wanted to see if the thing had any legs.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Micah.”

  Sensing the unpleasant direction the conversation was traveling, Micah set down the cash and stood up. “What are you talking about, Val?”

  “I don’t know what kind of contracting you do, but Jimmy Castillo isn’t in that field. Not reputably anyway.”

  Micah knew the gig was up, but he was dumbfounded that Valerie spoke so matter-of-factly about Castillo. She didn’t seem to know about him because she had seen his face in a news story. “How the…”

  “How could you keep this from me?” Valerie felt her face flush, rage seething through every fiber of her being. “Can’t you trust me enough to tell me something like this? Instead, I’ve got to find out the truth by seeing you making a drug deal. What the hell else are you keeping from me?”

  “Nothing.” Another lie. He could feel his heart growing colder, but there were some truths which were better left unsaid. “It wasn’t drugs.”

  “He just gives you all that cash because he thought you were cute? Maybe he’s been pimping you out.”

  Micah briefly had the urge to chuckle at the absurdity of those insinuations, but he was in hot enough water as it was. “A deal went sour, and we grabbed it before bailing.” The rate he was going, he’d be able to build a house with his fibs. This was a
t least closer to the truth. Valerie stared at him, her face devoid of emotion, but there was no mistaking the way she felt when she stormed out of the apartment. “Come on, hon. Valerie!”

  The door slammed shut and Micah grappled with the thought of chasing after her. Ultimately, he decided against it. She was mad enough at him as it was. Better to let her cool off for a bit than to charge after her like he had any hope of changing her mind. “Good damn job, numb nuts,” he said to himself. He punched the wall near the door, for no reason other than he needed an outlet for the anger he felt with himself in that moment. The hole his strike left didn’t help matters.

  Chapter 46

  Valerie wasn’t sure what she expected out of the confrontation. She had hoped for something resembling the truth, but she wasn’t sure the reality of his current situation was something she was ready to come to terms with. Jimmy Castillo was a lot of things, but a Boy Scout wasn’t one of them.

  If Micah was running with him, it was more than likely he had been on the wrong side of more than a few moral decisions. Valerie was no saint herself, but her transgressions were minor blips on the tapestry of an otherwise mundane life. Nothing she had ever done resulted in a life altering, or ending, predicament for another person. Every fiber of her being hoped that the obvious, low hanging fruit was a mirage. The man she fell for was truly a good person. Sure, he ran with a questionable crowd, but he could’ve done many odd jobs for Jimmy Castillo that weren’t synonymous with felony charges. The problem was, she had a hard time believing it.

  The dimly lit street outside their apartment stretched out for miles in either direction. A testament to what happens when the funds in a city aren’t distributed in such a manner befitting of all its residents. Valerie trudged down, wanting to run, but desperate to keep any attention away from herself. She just wanted to disappear for a while. To get away from the source of her anger. Part of her just wanted to call a ride share and head to a bar. Let her frustrations out with a few fingers of bourbon. The seedier the establishment the better.